


Diner at the End of the World

by Backwoulds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Accidents, Difficult Decisions, Drabble, Gen, POV Second Person, Protective Sam Winchester, Random & Short, Serious Injuries, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 19:01:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18016574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwoulds/pseuds/Backwoulds
Summary: Death gives Reader a very simple choice.





	Diner at the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> It's raining here and I'm really craving onion rings, and thus this little fic popped into my head. I had no idea where it was going at first. I'm still not sure it was meant to go where it did, but it is what it is. Death and Onion Rings.
> 
> This has made me realize how much I desperately miss Death and Julian Richings.
> 
> Fic is not set in any particular season, though it's clearly before *sniff* the bad thing happened to our favorite horseman.

The lights flicker on just long enough for you to see you’re standing next to a row of booths in a tidy, throwback roadside diner. The red vinyl covering the seats glimmers in what little light you’re afforded before you’re plunged into darkness again. You barely catch a glimpse of the requisite diner counter off to your right in that brief moment and see, quite clearly, there is a full pie under a glass dome at the far end of the counter. Dean’s taught you well.  
  
“Hello?” you call out. Amateur move. If you were in a horror movie, you’d be dead by now. Your voice echoes in the emptiness of the diner. As far as you can tell, you’re alone. That, at least, is comforting.  
  
That’s all fine and well, of course, except there is literally no reason for you to be standing alone in a dark diner right now. As far as you’re concerned, you were, only moments ago, standing next to Sam Winchester next to a payphone outside of a crummy bar on the outskirts of Spartanburg, South Carolina, freezing your ass off. Dean was inside, presumably, waiting to give you and Sam a call with directions to…  
  
You’re having trouble remembering past that.  
  
As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you’re able to take in the information provided by your other senses. Your ears pick up the soft sound of rain outside, and the low hum of a freezer somewhere behind the counter. You smell the remnants of a day’s worth of grease, along with some industrial-level cleaning product. It’s cold, as though someone’s turned the air conditioning on, but that doesn’t feel right. No, this place is unnaturally cold, and that sets you even further ill at ease.  
  
A roll of thunder rumbles through the place, rattling you to your very bones. Moments later, the requisite lightning follows. You move forward in the semi-darkness trying to gain your bearings. Where the hell are you, and why isn’t it Spartanburg, SC? And perhaps more importantly, why can’t you remember what happened in between there and here?  
  
You close your eyes for a moment and let the sound of the rain calm your nerves. Another crash of thunder sounds, louder than before. It had been raining in South Carolina, hadn’t it? You and Sam were huddled together in what in another life had passed for a phone booth. It was a miracle you’d even found a payphone in this day and age, and perfect timing considering you couldn’t trust your cell phones on this one. Too perfect, maybe, but there hadn’t been time to think about that. You remembered staring up at Sam’s concerned face as you both willed the payphone to ring. His mouth was set in a thin, hard line; his long, damp hair was matted to his forehead. You’d been thinking about reaching up and pushing it out of his eyes when a low, rumbling sound distracted you. Thunder? No, this was too close to be thunder.  
  
“KID!” Sam had screamed.  
  
There were bright lights. The sound of screeching metal. You’re still in the diner when you open your eyes again.  
  
“A car accident,” you say out loud.  
  
“‘Accident’ would be a very weak word for what happened to you,” a voice answers. “‘Assassination’ is the more appropriate description.”  
  
You nearly jump out of your skin. As if on cue (and of course it’s on cue, when all is said and done), the lights come on in sequence from the far ends of the diner to meet overhead where you’re standing by the staff entrance to the kitchen. You whirl around to find the source of the voice and see the back of someone’s head seated three booths away from you. The hair and clothes are both black and elegant. The posture is perfect and somehow unnerving. You take a wavering step forward, and the person turns to face you.  
  
The heat seems to leave your body in an instant when you realize you’re staring at Death.  
  
It takes you a moment to find your voice, and even longer to dare to take a step towards him. “Am I dead?”  
  
He doesn’t seem the least bit interested by your fear. “Well, aren’t you a clever little bacterium?”  
  
When you finally reach his table, you realize he’s busying himself with a snack. Unbelievable. No matter how many times you come face to face with the Horseman, you will never get used to his love of food. “I don’t understand—I’ve been dead before.” You stand in front of him like a nervous school girl and wait for him to speak. When he doesn’t, you continue. “Usually it’s like the world’s most irritating power nap. What’s with this whole restaurant get-up? Where are we?”  
  
“We, my dear, are at a diner at the end of the world.” Knowing Death, that could be a very literal statement, or you could just as easily be at a diner off the New Jersey Turnpike.  
  
“I am way too sober for this,” you mutter, shaking your head. That's the understatement of the friggin’ century.  
  
“Sit,” Death’s tone never changes, but the weight in that one word is enough to get you to shut up and pay attention. You slide onto the bench across from him and take a moment to look down at what he’s eating. “Onion rings,” he explains, taking a moment to gently wipe his fingers on a thin paper napkin he’s got on his lap. “I have it on very good authority these are the best in the universe. As far as I can tell, the reports are correct.” His movements are graceful, slow. Somehow he’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen—certainly the most powerful. And he’s eating onion rings.  
  
The two of you are quiet for a moment as Death studies you. His eyes sweep slowly over your frame, coming to rest on your hands. You feel like a child in grade school again, and the uncomfortable urge to fidget is practically popping in all of your extremities. After a few moments, you sweep your hands under the table and sit on them firmly to keep yourself from picking your fingernails off out of sheer anxiety. “No disrespect,” you manage, “but I doubt you brought me here to offer me onion rings.”  
  
“On the contrary,” he says, pushing the basket toward the center of the table. “This is precisely why I’ve brought you here.”  
  
“… you… brought me to the afterlife to split an appetizer?”  
  
“You really must try them.” It’s not a suggestion. You immediately reach for one of the rings and swipe it through the side of ranch beside them. You pop the whole thing in your mouth at once and are instantly impressed in spite of your terror.  
  
“Wow,” you manage, even though your mouth is full. These really might be the best onion rings in the universe. They’re definitely the best you’ve ever tasted.  
  
“As I said,” Death replies. Then he’s silent again, back to studying you.  
  
You swallow. “Not for nothing—these are good onion rings. I mean, really good, but… I still don’t get why I’m here.”  
  
“Would you like some more?” He continues staring at you with those black, quiet eyes.  
  
You do your best not to squirm in your seat. “No, thanks. I’m good.”  
  
Death folds his hands together in front of him and leans forward. “I’m not sure you understand what I’m asking.” His eyes burn into yours. “Are you satisfied with what you’ve had, or would you like to continue?”  
  
You stare at him for what feels like an eternity. His face is inscrutable.  
  
“Am I satisfied with the one onion ring, or do I want more onion rings?”  
  
He sighs at your stupidity and leans back in his seat.  
  
“I’ve been getting complaints about you for some time now, my dear.” He dangles a long, elegant finger over the basket and snatches up another onion ring for himself.  
  
“Complaints?”  
  
“From my reapers,” Death says. “They’re tired of running around trying to catch you and those co-dependent brothers you call your friends.” He looks at the ranch for a moment before deciding to dip the onion ring in ketchup instead, then pops the thing in his mouth and chews contemplatively. “Ranch or ketchup?” he asks.  
  
The change in subject throws you. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Do you prefer ranch or ketchup with your onion rings? I find so much depends on the breading myself,” he explains.  
  
You take a second to think about it. “I guess I don’t think about it too much but… ranch, I guess. Sometimes I like to mix them, though.”  
  
Death looks at you like you’ve finally done something interesting. “Hm. I hadn’t thought about doing that.” He picks up another onion ring and dips it first in the ketchup, then in the ranch. “Curious thought,” he muses before chowing down. “Very curious.  
  
“Now, as I was saying,” he pauses to wipe his fingers clean again. His every movement is fascinating. You watch him helplessly, caught somewhere between awe and terror. “There have been complaints—about all of you. You all seem to court me at every turn, yet none of you actually wants to commit. If I cared about the opinions of apes like you, I might feel a little slighted.   
  
“More importantly,” he continues, “it’s a waste of resources. I can’t have the best members of my team constantly running after the three of you only to be rebuffed again and again. I’m no longer sending my ‘A Team’ out for the Winchesters, of course, but there’s still the question of you.”  
  
“What’s the question?” you manage, your voice quiet but steady.  
  
Death holds your gaze and pushes the basket towards you again. “Are you satisfied with what you’ve had—”  
  
“—or do I want to continue,” you finish, finally understanding. The words hang in the air between you as a long, low tremor of thunder fills the silence. The lightning that follows is almost simultaneous.  
  
“You understand, this is not a choice I give to you lightly, nor is it my habit to come here and make offers to human beings personally. You should be incredibly flattered,” he raises his eyebrows at you, steepling his fingers together in front of his face, “and incredibly grateful that I haven’t simply chosen to blot you out of existence. This is a one-time offer either way. Either you come with me now and we end things here, or you continue are as you have been with the understanding that you will not, and cannot, be reaped. When you die, your soul will simply wander the earth.” He waits for the enormity of what he is saying to hit you before adding: “For all eternity.”  
  
You break his gaze and bring your hands back up to the table. You stare down at them, studying every crack and imperfection in your skin as you speak, “You would reap me yourself?”  
  
“That is the offer on the table,” he agrees.  
  
You study the scars on your hands, the jagged white streaks running through your otherwise healthy flesh. You’re young; if not for hunting, your skin would be unmarked by age or disease. You could, you should, have years left. And if you walk away from this table, you will. In fact, you will have nothing but years. Eternal, unending years. You look back up and meet Death’s eyes again. The thunder and lightning continue, but neither of you seems to notice. For this moment, there is only the two of you, only you and Death, sitting across from each other in this diner that may or may not even exist. His expression is calm as he silently waits for you to give him your answer.  
  
It doesn’t take you long to think about it. There’s only one option in the end.  
  
You reach forward and take another onion ring. You have just enough time to see the shadow of a smile on Death’s face before there’s nothing but darkness again. There’s a final crash of thunder as the lights go out.  
  
“KID!” Sam’s voice brings you back to yourself.  
  
You open your eyes slowly. You’re lying on your back in Sam’s lap in the pouring rain. The whole of your body hurts like a son of a bitch and you’re pretty sure you can taste blood.  
  
“Sam?” you mumble, taking a moment to work your aching jaw. “What happened?” Then you remember: car accident. You look up and see Sam is fairly torn up as well, but clearly nowhere near as badly as you are.  
  
“Shhh,” he commands, “don’t worry. I’ve called an ambulance. Dean’s gonna meet us at the hospital.”  
  
“What happened to the driver?” You run your tongue over a split in your lip. It stings.  
  
“He’s gone,” Sam growls, staring off in the direction the car’s presumably driven. A trickle of blood runs down his forehead. “But we’ll get him. We’ve got everything we need to take these bastards down now, and they know it.” His warm, hazel eyes fall back on yours. You hear sirens blaring in the distance. It takes you a minute to realize you’re both soaking wet. You shift and try to push yourself off of him, but the pain forces you back down.  
  
“Don’t try to move,” he warns you. “The car almost took you head on. I’m surprised you’re not—” He can’t bring himself to say the word. His mouth twitches downward. “For a minute, I thought you might be.”  
  
The two of you stare at each other as the sirens draw closer. For better or for worse, you’re here now, and you aren’t going anywhere for a very long time. You try to think of how to tell him that, how to tell Sam Winchester all about the diner, and about Death, and about the decision you made. You try to think of the words that will make it all seem all right when it can’t possibly be all right, and finally, you open your bruised and bleeding mouth and say:  
  
“Nah.”


End file.
